"Doesn't it feel good on your back!" exclaimed Nan, recognizing this
quality. "One seems to soak it in--just the way a thirsty plant soaks
water."

The rounded hills were turning a ripe soft brown. Across their crests the
sky looked very blue. High in the heavens some buzzards were sailing.
Innumerable quail called. On tree tops perched yellow-breasted meadow larks
with golden voices. In the bottom of the narrow valley where the road wound
were green willow trees and a little trickle of water. From the ground came
upward waves of heat and a pungent clean odour of some weed. Nan was
excited and keenly receptive to impressions.

"It's a hot day!" she cried, "and the road is dusty. By rights it ought to
be disagreeable. But it isn't! Why is that?"

The little valley widened into a pocket. Back from the road stood a low
white much house. Its veranda was smothered in the gorgeousness of
bougainvillaea. A grave, elderly, bearded Spaniard, on horseback, passed
them at a smooth shuffling little trot, and gave them a sonorous _buenas
dias_, The road mounted rapidly. Once when Keith had reined in to breathe
the horse, they heard the droning crescendo hum of a new swarm of bees
passing overhead.

"Isn't this nice!" cried Nan, snuggling against Keith's arm.

Suddenly, over the crest and down the other side, they came on sand hills.
The horse plodded along at a walk. Nan hung far out watching, fascinated,
the smooth, clean sand dividing before the wheels and flowing back over the
rim, and so over a little rise, and the sea was before them.